


A Real Gem

by tackytiger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Amortentia, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Falling In Love, Hogwarts Eighth Year, M/M, Potions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:35:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23146300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tackytiger/pseuds/tackytiger
Summary: A little Eighth Year ficlet based on a prompt @practicefortheheart posted on Tumblr:“You’re late. I don’t like to be kept waiting, Potter.”“Hmm, I know, but I like you a little angry.”Falling in love, and not talking about it, and all the nice Amortentia smells.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 54
Kudos: 546





	A Real Gem

I like him when he’s sharp, is the thing. It’s familiar, comforting in a way I’d never have expected before—before I died, and came back, and then won the war, but still had to return to Hogwarts and sit my NEWTs. And Malfoy was there, clearly not happy about being back, but trying very hard to be polite to everyone except me. 

And I liked that, liked having him around being cross with me—it felt personal, significant, like everything that had always gone between us before. He always did seem to hate me quite specifically, and now we’re… well, friends, I suppose, I realise that I’ve always liked the way he pays me so much attention. No one else was ever quite as interested in me as he is.

Being friends with him is fun. He makes me laugh a lot, now that he’s stopped being a complete dick to everyone I care about. He’s so fond of me that he can’t quite keep it off his face when I’m around, and I like that. I like knowing what’s going to annoy him, and doing it anyway, and then laughing him out of his irritation. I like that when he’s had a bad night, he comes to me. I’m not much good at talking about things, but I take him out flying and I make him work so hard to beat me that in the end he’s pink-faced and out of breath and laughing. When we put the brooms away I back him up against the door of the shed and kiss him until he’s breathless again, and that seems to cheer him up too.

The kissing is one of the things we don’t really talk about, along with his dad, and Voldemort, and what we’re going to do next year when we’re out of school. 

We don’t talk about how shitty Malfoy used to be. He said he was sorry, once, and I believe him. We don’t talk about his scars either. I haven’t said sorry for those, though I really should, but sometimes in bed at night (when it’s so dark he can’t see my face) I run my tongue over the silvered trails of them until he can’t keep his voice steady when he asks for more. Those times, just for a little while, I don’t regret a single thing. 

It’s probably not very healthy, all the things we don’t talk about, but I really like that we don’t _have_ to talk about them to be happy. And we are, I think. Sometimes, when he’s been talking about potions or Quidditch or dinner for ages, and I’m curled up near him, listening with half an ear, I wonder if this was how my parents felt about each other, back during the first war. It’s not like anything is simple, or uncomplicated, but liking him—and liking him _so much_ —is just about the easiest thing I’ve ever done. 

He’s waiting for me outside the Potions lab, and when I round the corner he’s already twitching with impatience. “I’m not that late,” I tell him firmly, and the crease of irritation between his brows deepens further, even as he takes me by the tie and kisses me like he can’t really help himself.

“You’re going to fail your NEWT.” His voice is cross even where it’s muffled by my mouth against his. “And if _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to help you pass…”—he moves away, but takes hold of my wrist to drag me after him, because he hates being near me and not touching—”then _you_ need to work harder. Come on! Everyone else has already started.”

I love to watch him work, and I know already that I’ll never forget how to brew this one. He murmurs the names of the ingredients lovingly, like they’re an incantation in themselves, _rose thorn_ and _peppermint_ , _ashwinder eggs_. He lets me grind the moonstones and the pearls, and when we tip them in and watch the powder settle into opalescence, I lean in and kiss him quickly, just once. My fingers leave a sheen of pearl dust along the haughty line of his cheekbone.

We’ve brewed it perfectly, of course, and we both inhale as the vapour rises.

“What do you smell?” I ask him.

He sighs, pushes away from the worktable and fetches a vial to fill.

“You know,” he tells me, quietly, like he’s worried about it—but I don’t, I really don’t, and I ask him again.

“What does it smell like to you, Malfoy?”

He makes me wait until he’s filled the vial with potion, but then he lays it down with a small musical clink and takes me in his arms, right there in the middle of the lab. I’m not expecting it. It’s not what we do, really, though everyone knows about us—we’re in each other’s beds most nights of the week, for one thing—and I know they’re all looking. But that’s ok. I lean into the unexpected nearness of him.

He tells me, “It smells of the sky after we’ve been flying,” and I nod, because I get that from it too—the wild peppery thrill of cold and woodsmoke and mist from the mountains. 

He pushes his nose into the hollow of my throat and breathes again, and his voice vibrates through me when he says, “It smells of your skin, this bit just here.” It’s the part of me he likes the best I think (he told me one night that it’s lickable and then looked desperately embarrassed) and when he touches his mouth to me there I feel shivery with wanting him.

“Chocolate,” he says, and drops a swift kiss right on my opening mouth. “The ones my mother likes best. And lemons—is it lemons?” He tugs at one of my curls, presses the coil of it to his nose. I nod, though he should know—it’s his shampoo I’ve been using for the last few months, after all.

“So there you have it, Potter,” he says, and he sounds cross again. He doesn’t like to care too much, and I understand that. I tighten my arms around him to keep him where I want him. 

He kisses me again, and the potion vapour eddies around us. 

All I smell is him.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, and thanks for reading.
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought of this, and I welcome chats on Tumblr too - [I'm @tackytigerfic](https://tumblr.com/blog/tackytigerfic) on there!


End file.
